


sweet darkness, dark sweetness

by littlemiss_m



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (in the past but prompto thinks back to it), Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Older Noctis, Promptis - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, it's all mostly in the past tho so prompto knows how to live with it!!, just late-night cuddles with between husbands, nothing dramatic as such happens in this piece, older prompto, they're both in their fourties here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18917272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: In the darkness of the night, Prompto remembers old desires.





	sweet darkness, dark sweetness

The room is dark and shrouded in shadows that smooth out all corners like the velvet drapes hanging off the ancient bed posts, their dusty scent still enough to tickle Prompto's nose after all the months and years he has spent sleeping in this bed. Curled up on his side, he stares out into the darkness, thinks he can just draw out a line of light where a curtain fails at its job, but – it's not like he cares.

He's conscious of Noctis' presence, just as he's conscious of the images and words buzzing through his brain or the heavy weight beginning to settle across his chest. Prompto stares at the blackness enveloping the world and thinks of the first nights, the first mornings, when they'd slept so entangled in each other's bodies that come daylight and the shrill call of the alarms, separating had felt like an impossibility. This isn't worse by any means, this casual intimacy of kissing goodnight and falling asleep on their own sides of the bed, and for the most part, Prompto doesn't even care. In the summer, when the days are hot and long, he quite prefers it, even, that he can sleep in only his own sweat rather than the oppressive heat of Noctis' body, because after a while, it really _is_ better to just sleep rather than to cling to physical intimacy where it simply isn't needed.

Prompto can't sleep. He's on his side with his arms folded against his chest, the fingers of one hand under the pillow and the others on his neck. He moves them, brushes his right thumb over the right side of his neck, tries to dig for his pulse, but something in the position fails him and he finds none.

If his thumb were a knife, he'd like that very much.

”Noct,” he murmurs, letting go of his neck in favor of shoving his hand backwards until it meets a heavy lump, ”Noct.”

He's too quiet, but he presses his palm on Noctis' hip and gives it two minute shakes, begs that they end up enough because he doesn't know if he can keep on trying if they don't. He's not actually upset or even distressed in any way, but he keeps on thinking about a knife slashing at his throat, his wrists, deep gashes of painless red spilling out.

”Noct,” Prompto tries one more time, when he hears the other stir but not wake, and this time he's rewarded with a startled snort that makes his lips curl up in fondness even as his brain continues to tempt him with images of blood-red pain.

”Prom?” Noctis' voice is gruff from sleep, a mere croak against the darkness of the night. Even if Prompto were to roll over, he wouldn't be able to see anything, but he's witnessed the scene of Noctis' morning glory so often he hardly needs a reminder before his memories conjure a picture of toussled hair and red eyes squinting at rising light.

It's a lovely sight, but so was the blood on his skin, back in the day. ”Noct,” Prompto agrees, though it's mostly because he now longer knows what to say. The bed shifts under him, dips and pulls and flexes against the curve of his spine, and he returns his arm to his front.

A faint gust of air hits the back of his neck, warm and reeking faintly of mint and then garlicky meatballs eaten as a late-night snack behind Ignis' back. Noctis is still half-asleep, alert enough to know something must be wrong but too far away from the realm of living to truly act on anything. He settles down, eventually, his weight high up on the bed – Prompto has to curl inwards a little or risk toppling – and just a couple inches away.

Bony knuckles press into the small of Prompto's back. Instinctively, he jerks away from them, then pushes against the touch, a sigh on his lips. Suddenly cold, he tucks his arms under the blanket and against his stomach.

”What's wrong, Prom?”

It takes him too much effort to formulate the words. ”Brain's being a little dumb,” he murmurs, eventually, trying to find a way to get lost in the fingers kneading against his back. ”Too noisy to fall asleep, heh.”

There's a short, blessed moment during which Noctis remains silent and Prompto continues staring into the darkness. He holds into his arms and drags the edges of his nails across the soft skin under his wrists, not pressing, not scratching, not even trying to hurt; he simply lets his nails glide this way and that in gentle little curves that nevertheless send shivers down his spine.

”I want a knife,” Prompto admits, already rolling over to his back. Noctis' hand flattens under his weight but doesn't even try to pull away, and Prompto curves his spine against it while reaching for his neck once more. ”And to put it here.”

Another stretch of silence. The night is so dark he knows Noctis can't see him move, can't make out the outline of his arm pressed against his neck, but – it's not the first time they've had this conversation, nor will it be the last one.

”Are you just – thinking about it, or _thinking_ about it,” Noctis asks soon enough, because after all these years, he, too, has learned the difference. He hardly sounds worried; more cautious than anything.

Prompto lets his arm flop down with a sigh and immediately he feels Noctis grope around for it. ”Just thinking.” Fingers circle his arm just above the elbow and dig into the hard muscle. ”You know how it goes.”

It's been a long, long time since Prompto last _wanted_ to hurt himself, but hardly days have passed since he last _thought_ about it.

”Yeah,” Noctis sighs, ”yeah.”

It's the images Prompto craves the most. He never really cared for the pain of a blade sliding through his skin, could find neither relief nor absolution in the act, but – afterwards, when his thighs burned under the cascade of hot water washing the blood away, when his jeans rubbed and chafed at the skin, when he sometimes took them off to see little spots of red seeping into the fabric – there had been something there. There, and in the dark rivulets running down his skin, in the blood he blotted away, in the sight of a kind of a pain he could take charge of, in the knowledge that though he hurt so badly he should have died from it, he still had control over it all.

These are all bad thoughts, and Prompto knows he shouldn't be thinking of them, but with his brain insisting in tossing them to the very forefront of his mind as soon as he sits down and quiets – it's not so easy, giving up on old addictions.

”Anything I can do?”

Prompto wishes it weren't so dark, because then he could see his husband's face – the dark eyes and the dark hair, the soft smile under the growing stubble, the little things he loves and adores and knows like the veins on the back of his hand. Prompto smiles and rolls over, scoots closer until he can rest his head next to Noctis' chest.

”Nothing much,” he sighs. His fingers tangle in the soft, warm fabric of Noctis' shirt, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to apologize for being a nuisance, for keeping the other up when they'll both have work in the morning, yet he swallows the words all the same.

He knows, by now, that none of it would be appreciated.

They lay together as a nest in the darkness, Prompto in the safety of Noctis' embrace, Noctis in the shape of the shield he so very rarely gets to be. There's no need for words; this is an old ailment, by now, and like all times between then and now, it, too, will come to pass.

”We should take the kids and go somewhere,” Noctis huffs, eventually, just as the dark void begins to grow into something sleepy and soft, and Prompto almost chokes on the snort that travels up his throat.

”And when exactly do you propose we do that?”

”Dunno, whenever Ignis says we can.” Noctis sounds a little sheepish, but so very hopeful, and Prompto is so tired he can only giggle into the chest spread out before him. ”Cosmogony's coming up soon, we could take a couple extra weeks to travel the world.”

”Mm, us and half the Crownsguard, you mean.”

”Well, yeah.” Noctis shrugs and though Prompto yearns for a kiss, he stays still, his body too comfortable to be moved in any direction. ”Might take a little planning, but we could go camping for a couple days. Gladio wouldn't complain, that's for sure.”

Prompto laughs, but soon it turns into something almost wet, then into a weary sigh; he's so, so exhausted. ”Really wanted to catch some Z's this night,” he laments, snuggling closer to Noctis who hums and squeezes at his waist, ”ugh.”

”Need anything?”

”Nah.” There is nothing to be done, really – morning will bring with it a better mood, a better day, but until then, all Prompto can do is to wait and pretend he isn't dreaming of hurting himself. ”I'm – I _will_ be good.”

A low hum resonates where he holds onto Noctis, a deep vibration as audible as it is tangible, and though Prompto wants nothing more but to fall asleep, he keeps his eyes open and strained in the darkness. Noctis' body blocks most of the view, casts shadows so dark they can't be breached, but Prompto knows every corner and contour of their bedroom, from the walls to the massive window to the soft, plush chairs and ancient pieces of furniture, and the shapes of them all construct a perfect rendition in his mind.

The words Noctis whispers into the silent darkness are familiar, three syllables each the weight of a thousand more, and though there's no need for Prompto to repeat them – they're not expected, not on a night like this when his brain is dumb and his chest full of aches – but he does so all the same.


End file.
